A Pair of Bees
by fandomsgirl48
Summary: Hamish Watson-Holmes has a younger sibling on the way... but there's also a shadow looming above the family. The shadow of Moriarty. This is set after the Fall, but John never meets Mary. John/Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1: Bees and Explosions

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, or any of the characters mentioned. **_

_**Hello! This is my first full length Sherlock fanfiction, and I would appreciate constructive criticism. **_

1: Explosions and Bees

"You want another baby,"

John stiffened against Sherlock's back, suddenly glad his face was burrowed into his husband's dressing gown. Sherlock, determined to make a point, disentangled himself from John and rolled over so he would pierce John with his calculating gaze. Even in the semi-darkness, John could feel it analysing him.

"What makes you think that," John murmured, reaching out for Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock intertwined their hands, but naturally didn't let the subject go.

"I know, John. We've been together for four years, and I've known you even longer. I can read you like a book," he said, his voice devoid of sleep. It was only 11pm, but John had already slept for a few hours. If he was lucky, Sherlock would stay until about one, and then leave to do experiments until Hamish woke up and demanded his father.

"Well, I've been thinking that Hamish would like some company, and he needs to speak to other children more- he doesn't get on very well at his play group," John said, carefully. One could never predict what would set Sherlock off into a spectacular mood.

"Why on earth do you still send him to that awful play group," Sherlock replied, which was pretty mild for him. John pulled the taller man closer, and wrapped his arms around his lanky frame.

"Because although you're convinced he's going to be the next Einstein, he still needs to learn how to talk to other kids," John reasoned, thinking of their incredible son, with his dark curls and azure eyes and intelligence that was already exceeding children's twice his age. Hamish was already abnormal, even if he wasn't being raised at crime scenes and being read medical books instead of fairy tales- John wanted some normality in their three year old's life.

"We'll sort out another child, then," Sherlock said after a few minutes. John wondered how his husband's brain functioned several times every day, and this was one of those times.

"It's not that simple, Sherlock. Hamish was a surprise, we didn't plan him," John said into Sherlock's curls. Sherlock shrugged, and looked at John.

"I know you're concerned about the biological aspect, and that's no problem. I'll recruit Mycroft to do something," he explained. John nodded, but didn't expect Sherlock to act on that plan. He simply curled into Sherlock and drifted lazily, thinking of how they would spend the day with Hamish tomorrow. They'd just returned from their honeymoon, which had obviously involved murder, and although Sherlock didn't admit it, he'd missed Hamish desperately.

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"_Do you think Mrs Hudson did anything stupid?" Sherlock asked, glaring out the taxi window. John rolled his eyes, and put down his phone. _

"_What on earth makes you think that Mrs Hudson is incapable of looking after our son?" the doctor snapped, more harshly than he intended. The holiday in New York had ended with Sherlock being hospitalised with a minor knife wound, and John was still slightly miffed that he hadn't had a calm, peaceful getaway like he'd imagined. Still, he'd married Sherlock Holmes. What did he expect?_

_Obviously Sherlock didn't notice John's frayed temper, and began talking again, more to himself than John._

"_She's less intelligent than us both, so Hamish will have been exposed to a more mudane way of life, with more useless prattle and less useful experiences. He could have picked up on anything there- what if he started having a television soap preference?" _

_John sighed, and checked the time on his phone. Only roughly three minutes until they were back at Baker Street._

"_Sherlock, Hamish is three. His mental capacity won't be ruined by a week with Mrs Hudson," John said. A part of him secretly hoped being 'exposed' to normality would benefit him. He would never tell Sherlock, but he was scared that Hamish wouldn't develop the necessary people skills, even with John's influence._

_Sherlock carried on staring stonily out the window, but reached for John's hand, and John took it, regardless of how exasperated he was with his boyfr- no, husband. John would never get used to that._

_The Taxi pulled up at 221B, and Sherlock practically leapt out of the car, only pausing to grab his case, which he didn't trust John with. John was used to paying the driver by now, and picked up his smaller case before following Sherlock into 221B. He found Sherlock standing outside Mrs Hudson's flat, Hamish snuggled into his chest and chattering into his father's ear. Sherlock, for once, didn't seem to be listening, just drinking in the appearance of his son. Mrs Hudson was standing to the side, watching fondly, and she smiled with watery eyes at John when he entered._

"_Daddy!" Hamish called when he saw John, and Sherlock strode over to his husband and transferred Hamish into his arms. Hamish wrapped his skinny arms around John's neck, but didn't deem him intelligent enough to start rambling about his observations over the last week, and just relaxed into his daddy's arms. _

"_Did you have a nice honeymoon, boys?" Mrs Hudson asked, handing Sherlock Hamish's bag of toys and books. _

"_Yes, thanks, Mrs Hudson," John replied pleasantly, "How was Hamish?" _

"_Oh an absolute pleasure, dear," their landlady reassured John. Sherlock didn't look like he could care less, and was clearly dying to get back up to their flat. _

"_Come on up for dinner later on, Mrs Hudson. We just need to get settled," John said, as he began to carry Hamish upstairs. Hamish still hadn't said much, but John was used to him having minor mood swings, like his father. Well, his father's weren't as minor. Sherlock grudgingly picked up both his and John's cases, and followed them up to 221B._

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"Daddy!" John was jerked into consciousness by a small boy bouncing on his bed. Hamish was still wearing his pajamas (striped like a bee) and his hair was even unrulier than Sherlock's.

"Alright, Hamish?" John said sleepily, holding out his arms. Hamish immediately slotted his little body into John's embrace, and began chattering about bees and father and whether they could collect some honey samples today. John nodded, still semi-conscious, and ran his fingers through Hamish's curls. They lay happily for about fifteen minutes, before the door was flung open to reveal Sherlock, wearing his lab coat and a sheepish expression. John's eyes narrowed, not needing Sherlock skills of observation to deduce what had happened. Hamish laughed, and sat up onto John's chest, before leaning down and whispering into John's ear.

"Father has blown something up,"

Sherlock pretended not to notice, and crawled onto the bed, curling up against John and entangling their legs.

"John, you know I love you," he began, shooting a glare at Hamish when the toddler opened his mouth to inform John of exactly what had happened. John groaned, thinking of the amount of times he'd had to spend days cleaning up the kitchen due to one of Sherlock's experiments.

"Just tell me how bad it is," he groaned, bracing himself. Sherlock hesitated, before mumbling something unintelligible.

"Clearer this time," John chided. Hamish giggled, and began playing with Sherlock's hair. Sherlock pushed Hamish's hand away, before realising parents usually allowed contact like that, and pulling the little boy into his chest.

"We may need a new fridge," Sherlock admitted. John reluctantly pushed Sherlock and Hamish off him, and went out to inspect what was left of the kitchen. And life continued as usual at 221B, the subject of another baby seemingly forgotten. That was until Mycroft showed up.


	2. Chapter 2: Mycroft interferes (twice)

_**I don't own Sherlock, or any of its characters.**_

_***note at end of chapter***_

2: Mycroft interfering (twice)

**Three years earlier**

"You can't be bloody serious, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed at his older brother. Mycroft regarded him coolly, as if the world ending wouldn't interrupt this conversation.

"The DNA tests have been run, and it's yours. I know this wouldn't have been your preferred outcome, but…" Mycroft trailed off delicately, looking pointedly at John, who was sitting in his chair in utter shock. John wondered if he was supposed to be doing something- comforting Sherlock or something like that. But he truly couldn't move.

"Mycroft, I'm hardly in the position to deal with a _child_," Sherlock said the word as if it disgusted him. Knowing his boyfriend, it probably did, John thought despairingly.

"On the contrary. You're in a stable, loving relationship; you have a house, lots of friends who could babysit. John could provide sentimental parenting, while you-"

"Now hold on, Mycroft," John snapped, standing up. Sherlock gave him a look which clearly said 'Shut up before I shut you up myself' but John continued, fuelled by Mycroft's comment.

"Sherlock has the capacity to love. Just because you constantly drill into him that 'Caring is not an advantage' does not mean that he won't emotionally be able to deal with a baby. I know first hand how human Sherlock can be, and I won't tolerate you making him into some sort of machine," John spat. Mycroft blinked- usually him and John got along quite well- but nodded in acknowledgment of John's words. Sherlock looked at John with an almost unreadable expression on his face, but John knew his boyfriend too well. Pride was slipping into his angular features, but they were both summoned back into the conversation by Mycroft.

"Regardless, this baby needs a home, Sherlock. Irene is dead, and you're his only remaining family. So unless you're happy with your offspring living in an orphanage, I suggest you reconsider," Mycroft explained. Sherlock tugged at his hair, and collapsed onto the sofa. John gave Sherlock a scathing glare- Irene? When was this supposed to have happened? Sherlock and John had only been together seven months, so at least Sherlock most likely hadn't cheated on him.

"I'll bring the child round tomorrow afternoon. I apologise for the incredibly short notice, but this is our only option," Mycroft said, his cold persona, as always, intact. He departed swiftly, leaving John with a sulky Sherlock and millions of questions swirling round in his head.

"You've got questions," Sherlock said, after what could have been hours.

"Irene _bloody_ Adler?" John finally said, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice. Sherlock sat up suddenly, as if he only just realised what her name implied.

"John. I didn't cheat on you. This was 10 months ago- and she drugged me," he said impossibly fast. John stared at him for a while, then shrugged.

"And how were you have supposed to have been in contact with Irene Adler? Who was beheaded a few years ago?" John accused. Sherlock closed his eyes, and let out a groan of exasperation.

"I rescued her from her beheading. She texted me asking to have dinner, out of the blue, after years without contact. I- we'd had a fight, and I had no clue how to resolve it, and I just wanted to hold you, even though I thought you were in love with that girl, Mary. So I met her, she drugged my wine, and I woke up naked next to her with no idea what had happened. I left immediately, and I haven't seen her since," Sherlock said it all very quickly, but crossed over to John while he was speaking and straddled him. Now he was looking John directly in the eye, so that John couldn't escape the kaleidoscope of colours that made up his boyfriend's irises.

"Please believe me John. You're- I'm so bad at this, and I need you more than anything,"

It was a rare feat to see sincere emotion on Sherlock's face, and John knew that Sherlock was being completely honest. John sighed, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock buried his nose into the crook of John's shoulder, breathing him in, before he spoke.

"I have absolutely no clue how to raise a child," the detective admitted. John laughed.

"Me neither,"

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**Present Day**

John sat at the table, his old laptop balancing atop a pile of books, with Hamish perched on his lap. Hamish was holding Sherlock's skull, and quietly mumbling to it, while John typed up their latest case. It had involved a cow's diet being tampered with, and contaminated milk being transported around the country, resulting in multiple deaths. Although not quite the dramatic murder Sherlock had been hoping for, it was still a perplexing mystery and had perplexed the detective for days.

"Daddy, when can we go back into the kitchen?" Hamish whined suddenly. A few weeks after the experiment, and the kitchen was still inaccessible. Like Sherlock, Hamish didn't value eating, but liked playing with the insects that lingered outside the kitchen window. John wrapped one arm around his son's torso, and looked over at Sherlock. The detective was lying on the sofa, his hands pressed together as if in prayer, most likely searching his mind palace for some sort of information.

"Soon, Hamish. If you want to blame someone, blame father," John replied, concentrating on the blog post again. Sherlock made a disapproving grunt, and Hamish mimicked it, before climbing down from John's lap and toddling over to Sherlock. John watched fondly, remembering when Hamish was just a baby, who could barely function without his parents' help. John did admit he missed having a baby… someone who depended on him whole heartedly… but could their lifestyle support two children?

John's train of thought was interpreted by Mycroft arriving unexpectedly at the door. John was about to alert Sherlock to his brother's presence, but Sherlock opened his arms for Hamish and kept his eyes closed.

"I trust you've arranged everything, brother dear?" Sherlock asked, not moving from the sofa. John watched the exchange in confusion, not putting together the pieces.

"Yes. The biological side has been arranged, we just need both of your signatures before we can complete the procedure. And, well, the necessary parts from John," Mycroft reported, looking somewhat awkward. And suddenly it clicked.

"Oh… you actually arranged it," John breathed. Mixed emotions cluttered up his brain but the most prominent was joy- another baby. A smile broke across John's face, and he noticed Sherlock give a satisfied smirk to Hamish, before finally turning towards Mycroft.

"And everything is as I said?"

"Everything," Mycroft promised, leaning on his umbrella. Sherlock nodded, before turning to John.

"Is tomorrow adequate? Hamish is at his god forsaken play group, so we'll be free for a few hours," Sherlock said, as if John was supposed to understand what was happening. John nodded mutely. Mycroft bade them farewell, and Sherlock immediately grabbed a laptop and began some sort of research. John watched him for a while, before inferring that he wasn't going to elaborate, and sitting beside Sherlock's feet. Sherlock put his overly expensive shoes on John's lap, but continued typing. Hamish had slipped off Sherlock's chest, and was now playing with his Lego in the middle of the floor, completely oblivious to the conversation that had just taken place.

"So, what's happening tomorrow?" John said at last.

"I thought it was fairly obvious. We'll go to Bart's, use your genes to fertilise an egg given by a woman by Mycroft has selected to resemble me, so we don't get a child that looks like neither of us. If the process works, then we'll use the woman as a surrogate, and she'll give birth to the baby, so we can both adopt it. Obvious," Sherlock said, very quickly and calmly. John stared at him in shock, before leaning back and shaking his head.

"Very obvious," he sighed.

_**Well I hope you liked! I might extend the chapter lengths, but at the moment I'm keeping them medium sized. I know this chapter came a few hours after the first, but expect the next one in a few days. Thanks for reading!**_


	3. Chapter 3: Awkward Situations

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock**_

3: Awkward Situations

John tapped his foot impatiently, checking his watch. Five minutes- five _bloody_ minutes to get Hamish to his play group and then to St Bart's. As usual, Sherlock was making a fuss about leaving the flat, and was deliberately taking eternity to sort out his hair. Apparently it was 'John's fault for being so careless with it' as Sherlock had yelled at him from the bathroom, but John knew he was just being difficult because he felt Hamish shouldn't be attending play group. Hamish was happily talking to John about his skull, dressed in a hat and scarf to battle the cold weather.

"Sherlock, I swear to god if you don't get down in here in 30 seconds, I'm leaving," John yelled up the stairs in exasperation when Hamish had stopped rambling. Hamish giggled, and tugged at John's sleeve as an indication he wanted to be picked up. John balanced Hamish on his hip, and scowled at the ceiling, where his stupid husband was no doubt having a great time aggravating John.

"Father is being stupid," Hamish observed. John rolled his eyes, remembering the conversation he'd had with Sherlock when Hamish started talking. John had told him to use mellow words, that didn't cause any offense, around Hamish. Obviously Sherlock didn't listen, reasoning that Hamish needed as vast a vocabulary as possible in his infant years.

Sherlock finally graced them with his presence two minutes later, pulling on his coat and knotting his scarf at the base of his neck. John tried not to stare at the vast expense that was Sherlock's neck, and simply turned and marched out the door.

Once they were in the cab, Hamish settled himself between his parents, and began studiously examining a book on human anatomy. Sherlock pulled out his phone, and began scanning the data for any potential cases to figure out, while John simply stared out the window. The taxi was silent, but it was a pleasant silence, which their strange little family was fully used to.

They pulled up by the playgroup a few minutes later, and Sherlock insisted on holding onto the cab, so he didn't have to bother himself with ordinary people. John picked up Hamish, and after making sure he had his lunch box and backpack, carried him into the hall. All the other mothers were leaving, satisfied that their child had settled in, so John moved quickly over to one of the woman who ran the playgroup.

"Hi, I need to somewhere, so is it ok if I leave Hamish with you to hang up his coat and stuff?" John said, putting Hamish down and ruffling his curls. The blonde woman with a sickly pink cardigan smiled dazzlingly at John, and nodded.

"Of course- what time will his mother be here for him?" she asked, taking Hamish's hand. Hamish looked exactly like Sherlock as he glared at her with contempt, and pulled his hand free, choosing to delve into his book.

Mentally groaning, John prepared him for the conversation which either resulted in a homophobic comment or a forced smile and a quick dismissal.

"He hasn't got a mum. Me and his dad will be here later," he said quietly, aware of other women listening to the conversation. The insufferable woman still smiled, but looked at him in confusion.

"So are you his uncle?" she said, as if she couldn't draw the correct conclusion. John gave her a tight smile.

"No, I'm his dad," he said promptly. A strange expression crossed the woman's face, before she gave Hamish a glance, then looked back at John.

"Ah. Well, see you in a few hours," she said, and walked away, clutching Hamish's wrist. John stared after her in disgust, but upon checking his watch, he realised he ought to be at St Bart's and dashed out the hall.

Sherlock was glaring at John from the taxi, where the driver was presumably trying to make conversation. Smirking, John slid in next to Sherlock, and closed the door. Sherlock gave the name of their destination, and then proceeded in slamming the glass partition shut, so as to block out the driver. John sighed, and relaxed back into his chair. You'd think in this day and age, people would be more accepting of same sex couples, John thought despairingly. Sherlock obviously noticed that John was bothered by something, and was quick to deduce.

"Another homophobic parent or teacher?" he asked, barely looking up from his phone. John was used to getting Sherlock's attention being divided, and wasn't offended when Sherlock didn't appear to show any interest.

"Yeah. Though I was Hamish's uncle," snorted John. Sherlock let out a soft laugh, and carried on typing.

"You honestly care what people think?" the detective asked. John shrugged.

"I try not to. But not everyone is a genius who relies primarily on intellect. Most of us are just ordinary, and need to blend in a bit," Sherlock considered this, and then shuffled over so that he was leaning against John. John put his arm around his husband, and nestled his cheek into his curls. Most people had been accepting of him and Sherlock's relationship, but they both still had to deal with homophobes. Donovan, for example, wasn't exactly supportive of their relationship- John still remembered when they'd made it clear they were in a relationship in front of the whole of Scotland Yard…

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"For God's sake, John, surely you can get more from this body than how long she's been dead?" Sherlock snapped at his doctor. Sherlock and John had been summoned by Lestrade earlier that morning, by the Inspector bursting into the flat to find its occupants by the window, full on snogging. John hadn't exactly relished in explaining the situation to Lestrade, who had taken a picture before alerting them to his presence, but Lestrade was surprisingly accepting, although he warned him that now it was completely his responsibility to control Sherlock at crime scenes. However, Lestrade kept giving John looks whenever he and Sherlock so much as talked, to which John responded with glares. As usual, Sherlock was obvious and focused on the crime.

"Sherlock, there's absolutely no sign of any injury on the body. Use your fancy detective skills to find the bloody injury," John said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his tone. Sherlock groaned dramatically, and began examining the body again, clearly sulking with John.

John bent down reluctantly, and began looking in more detail at the face. The face would be a good indication of any external substances entering the body. Her mouth would be an ideal starting point- John tried to observe without touching the body, but it was impossible, so he opened her mouth slightly. A gleam of white caught his eye- some sort of white powder was staining her tongue. John's eyes widened, and he caught Sherlock's wrist as the detective moved by him, earning him some strange looks from the rest of the team.

"Look- some sort of drug?" John muttered, gesturing to her woman's mouth. Sherlock scanned the evidence, before his face shaped itself into a smile and he stood up abruptly.

"Of course! Oh John you do bring out the genius in me," Sherlock gasped, and pulled John by his coat into a kiss. John squealed, somewhat girlishly, and felt the open mouthed stares of Scotland Yard piercing his back. Sherlock obviously didn't care, and kept on shoving his tongue into John's mouth until John finally pushed his detective away.

"Christ, Sherlock," he laughed disbelievingly. Sherlock smirked, before strutting out the door, leaving John with five gob smacked officers, and Lestrade, who seemed to be doubled up in laughter. John smiled sheepishly at the team, before following his boyfriend out the door. He heard Lestrade asking someone to pay up, and Anderson groaning, as well as Donovan making a remark on how she always knew John was a poof. That didn't sit well with John, but he never actually brought it up, relying on Lestrade to put her in her place. John had found Sherlock waiting- _waiting_- for him outside the building, and John had wrapped his arm around his boyfriend's waist as they waited for a taxi.

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"Ok, John, I gather you've… prepared?" Molly could barely look John in the eye, clearly embarrassed by the ordeal. John felt more or less the same, and reached slowly into his pocket, wishing the earth would swallow him.

"Hurry up, John," Sherlock chided, sounding bored already. John turned to glare at his husband, but Sherlock simply reached into John's trouser pocket and pulled out the container, handing it straight to Molly was no indication of feeling awkward or uncomfortable in the situation. Molly held it gingerly, and gestured for them to follow her into the lab.

"John, its honestly not that big of a deal," Sherlock whispered in John's ear. John pushed Sherlock away- there was more than one reason that the situation was embarrassing. Molly still fancied Sherlock slightly; as Mrs Hudson had confided in him (Mrs Hudson had struck up a strange sort of friendship with Molly, bonded over their association with Sherlock). John had been rather surprised by this revelation- Sherlock had been gay most of his life, and was married with a son- surely that was enough of an indication he wasn't interested. Apparently it was a ghost of how infatuated she had been, and thankfully Sherlock hadn't noticed.

"Alright, so how long will it take?" John said as he entered the lab. Molly was bringing out her equipment, and gave John a tight smile, before replying.

"A few hours. I know you need to get back to Hamish so you can leave whenever," she said softly. John couldn't help but feel slightly sorry for her, as she averted her gaze from the tall, alluring man in the corner on his phone, and back to the Petri dish.

"Let's get this over with," John said, and dragged Sherlock to Molly's side, so they could monitor the process themselves.

_**Thanks for reading! Please review!**_


	4. Chapter 4: A new experiment assistant

_**Ok, so my update schedule will be a chapter every Friday. I have school and stuff, so I'm afraid this is the best I can do :/ **_

4: A new experiment assistant.

"Father reads me _interesting_ books, daddy," Hamish grumbled as John pulled the little boy's pajama top over his curls. Sherlock made a triumphant sound from the other side of the room, where he was examining a drawing Hamish had created.

"Well, you'll like this book, I promise," John said, as he scooped Hamish up and began tucking him in. Hamish looked apprehensively at the Harry Potter book, but snuggled into his duvet regardless. John nestled in beside his son, and began to read the first chapter. Hamish was entranced by the tale, and kept on interrupting to express his wonder at the wizarding world. Naturally, Sherlock had slunk away after a chaste kiss to Hamish's forehead, not wanted to be bored by the impossibility of magic, and was making noise downstairs in the newly repaired kitchen. Hamish finally drifted off around Chapter 3, and John closed the book, before kissing Hamish's cheek fondly and closing the door quietly behind him.

John made his way downstairs, hoping that he could draw Sherlock away from his experiment for a few hours. Maybe they could put a detective film on- Sherlock always preferred those to any other kind of film, because he could usually guess the culprit within half an hour- and they could cuddle for a bit. Well… it wasn't exactly cuddling. Sherlock sat as stationary as a statue on some occasions, and on others he curled himself around John like a cat.

Alas, Sherlock was gone- his coat and scarf were missing from the hook. John tried not to feel disappointed… it was hardly as if Sherlock was going to under go a personality transplant because of a civil union. He'd just hoped… no. He'd invaded Afghanistan- he could deal with his husband leaving for a few hours. As usual, there was no note, so John sent a hasty text to Sherlock, before settling down to watch repeats of Doctor Who.

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_1:34am_

_Back at dawn. Not dead- SH_

_8:06am_

_Where are you? We agreed that we'd tell Hamish today._

_8:07am_

_Case. Back by lunch- SH_

_9:13am_

_He's asking for you. Come home you prick._

_9:14am_

_I love it when you're affectionate, John- SH_

_10:07am_

_This isn't a joke. You'd better have a good excuse for ditching me._

_10:08am_

_I do- SH_

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Hamish stared at the baby food in disgust, his lips set in a determined scowl. John had tried everything to make the toddler eat… well apart from normal things. He'd fetched Hamish's science books and threatened to throw them out, confiscated the infant microscope that Sherlock had insisted on, and he'd even told him it was an experiment.

What was so repulsive about chicken and carrot mush? John pinched the bridge of his nose, before leaning back in the chair. What would a normal parent do? Probably the old "Airplane" trick. In desperation, John picked up the offending spoon, and began making swooping noises. Hamish regarded him in complete bewilderment at first, but eventually began to laugh and play along. John triumphantly steered the food into the resistant boy's mouth.

"Wasn't that hard, was it Hamish?" John said softly, lifting Hamish out of his chair and wiping his chin.

"Honestly John, couldn't you think of a more sophisticated way of getting that muck down him?" a cool voice came from behind him. John spun around to see Sherlock, looking slightly smug, standing in the kitchen door way.

"Where the hell have you been?" John hissed, putting Hamish down. Sherlock looked unharmed, but very tired. Hamish ran into the living room, oblivious to the tension between his parents

"On a case, as I said," Sherlock looked slightly confused. John pushed past him- the detective had been out for over twelve hours, doing god knows what, _without John_

Sherlock grabbed John's arm, and looked him straight in the eyes. Struggling, John tried to break eye contact, but failed.

"Don't be boring about this John. I had a client-someone had to stay with Hamish. It's hardly the end of the universe," Sherlock's eyes were cold, but focused. John nodded, and tried to ignore how machine like his husband seemed.

"Okay. Tell me about the case later. We're telling Hamish now," John said sharply, marching into the sitting room. Sherlock trailed behind, pulling his coat off and throwing it on the floor. Hamish was playing with Sherlock's skull- an unfortunate habit he'd developed. John plucked his son from the floor, and collapsed onto the sofa, perching Hamish on his lap. Hamish wrapped his arms around John's neck, looking at him inquisitively- he always looked like Sherlock when he did that.

The man himself settled himself awkwardly beside them, looking as if he about to go into battle.

They'd agreed after meeting the surrogate, Natalie (who fiercely resembled Sherlock) that they would tell Hamish _after_ the first trimester, when it was less likely a miscarriage would occur. Natalie was thirteen weeks pregnant now, so they'd deemed it safe. It was an unspoken agreement that John would lead the conversation- Sherlock didn't have a child filter.

"Ok, Hamish, we have a surprise for you," John began. Hamish perked up, listening intently now. John paused, wondering how to word it- he'd never been in this situation before. Apparently, when his sister, Harry, had been told of their mother's pregnancy, she'd thrown a tantrum and sulked for days. Hopefully Hamish would have a more positive reaction, John thought optimistically.

"You're going to have a little brother or sister," were the words John finally decided upon. Hamish blinked at his parents, clearly not understanding. Sherlock audibly sighed, before gently grabbing Hamish's chin.

"In a few months, you'll have a younger sibling. We don't know if it'll be a boy or a girl yet, but it's healthy and that's what matters," he explained, managing to sound slightly bored. John shot a glare at Sherlock, but watched Hamish carefully. The little boy didn't really seem bothered, which John supposed was better than him being upset at the idea. Finally, Hamish smiled.

"Will I be able to do experiments with him," was the clinching question that the infant offered. John laughed in fond disbelief, while Sherlock cracked a half smirk.

"Almost certainly," the detective confirmed. Hamish looked positively delighted, and began babbling about how he wanted to test the durability of silver and he'd need an assistant. He leaped off John's lap, and dragged him by his hand over to his current experiment- which was simply playdough- to explain it to him. John followed happily, but glanced back at Sherlock. He was standing by the window, ignoring the rest of the world. Doubt and suspicion began to poison John's mind, but he pushed it away- Hamish was what mattered. Always Hamish.

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"A homicide. The maid was framed by the wife of the victim. That's about it,"

Sherlock was refusing point blank to elaborate further on the case, choosing to slouch on the sofa and delve into his mind palace. John threw his newspaper down in frustration, rounding on Sherlock.

"What is wrong with you?" he snapped. Luckily, Hamish was in bed, so he didn't have to witness John's loss of temper. Sherlock didn't react, so John moved closer, so that he was above Sherlock.

"You leave for about fourteen hours without me, so anything could have happened to you. You get back, and you're acting like a bloody robot towards me and Hamish. And you're not telling me about the case, which you normally do about half a dozen times. So what the hell is wrong?" John demanded. Sherlock opened his devastatingly beautiful eyes- no John, concentrate- and regarded John for moment, before standing up.

"You married a sociopath, John. Surely you knew what you were letting yourself in for," he said coldly. John exploded, and pushed Sherlock against the wall.

"You're not a bloody sociopath," John hissed, his nose almost touching Sherlock's. The taller man narrowed his eyes, was began to retort, but John cut him off.

"No, listen. A sociopath can't feel. And Sherlock, you feel more than most people I know. You love Hamish more than anything, and you might deny it to everyone else, but don't you dare deny it to me,"

Sherlock stared at John for what seemed like eternity, before relaxing into him. John tentatively wrapped his arms around his husband, and Sherlock burrowed his nose into John's neck.

"A…girl died. Because of me. The murderer was following me, and I was in a public place. And this teenage girl was shot and I couldn't do anything," Sherlock whispered, his voice thick. John held him, and wondered idly how he'd ended up with someone was wonderfully complex as Sherlock Holmes.

_**Meh, not sure how much I like this. Sorry if it's a bit boring, but I've got more action planned for next chapter…**_


	5. Chapter 5: Romance and Dead People

_**Sorry for the slightly late update… hope you enjoy!**_

5: Romance and Dead people

"_Gay marriage has been legalized in the United Kingdom," the bored looking news reporter stated in a monotone. Sherlock smirked from under John's arm, and picked up his phone. Hamish was curled up between the pair of them, interested in only his children's encyclopaedia- at two years old, he could already read, and was starting to develop his vocabulary at an alarming rate. _

_John ignored the headline- as if Sherlock would ever get married. They'd most likely carry on their partnership indefinitely, John had concluded, and pushed the idea of a fancy wedding out of his brain completely. _

"_Daddy, what's that?" Hamish asked to both parents. Sherlock didn't respond, so John leaned over to look the picture Hamish was pointing to. The picture illustrated a Roman aqueduct, which John quickly explained. Admittedly, John's knowledge of Roman architecture wasn't extensive, and Hamish looked unsatisfied- he disappeared into Sherlock and John's bedroom to search for more books containing information. John turned back to the news, wishing he didn't live with two geniuses. _

"_So, shall I ask Mycroft to bring the papers round?" Sherlock said casually. _

"_Mm?" John replied, concentrating on the story about a car crash. Sherlock finished a text, before speaking again. _

"_The marriage papers," John took a sip of tea, but immediately choked on it. He whipped round to look at Sherlock, who was looking earnestly at him. _

"…_excuse me?" John stuttered, wondering if the detective was playing some sort of joke on him. Sherlock blinked, and moved away from under John's arm, so he could sit up straight._

"_Well, we'll get married, won't we? The legal benefits are more advantageous than not, and parental issues could be resolved easier if we were legally-" _

"_You have said many times that marriage is pointless," John cut him off. Sherlock nodded in agreement, but snaked his hand onto John's knee._

"_Most marriages are about status and self worth. However, I intend to spend the rest of my life with you, so I believe it is prudent to bind myself to you legally," the detective said, completely calm and composed. John stared at his boyfriend in disbelief, but finally regained his wits._

"_Your romantic proposal has astounded me," he said dryly. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and leaned closer._

"_John," he breathed, "You're my universe. You are my sun, my reason for living-" John pushed him playfully, and the detective looked genuinely surprised as he fell back against the sofa arm rest._

"_Let's not over do it," John whispered, leaning over Sherlock. Sherlock's pupils dilated, and he quickly wrapped his arms around John's neck, pulling him down so their lips collided. John smiled against Sherlock's mouth, and moved his hands to cup his angular jaw, loving the sound of the other man's moans. _

"_Is that a yes?" Sherlock asked, pressing his forehead against John's. John smirked, and nodded._

"_Since you begged,"_

"So there is no chance that a weapon could have been smuggled in?"

Sherlock glared at the Librarian, who looked as if she was about to burst into the tears. She nodded, and pointed a shaking finger towards the computer, which displayed security camera footage. There was no indication of anything suspicious being smuggled in, but John knew better than to trust a security camera. Sherlock's piercing gaze dissected the footage of the public entering the library, but he eventually sighed and leant back.

"Show me the footage of the murder," he asked the librarian grudgingly. She obediently showed the recording of a young woman casually opening a book, then crumpling to the floor. Dead within half a second. John grimaced- he never got over how stiff and cold the bodies looked- and instead focused on the rest of the team. Lestrade was barking orders at Anderson, who was examining the body. That had yet to unleash Sherlock upon the body, so they weren't getting anywhere.

Finally, Lestrade straightened up, and caught John's eye, motioning him over. Glad to rescue the librarian from Sherlock's lack of manners, John grabbed his husband's arm, and began to pull him towards the dead woman. Sherlock linked his fingers with John's, now a natural response. John allowed himself a smirk as their wedding rings rubbed together, but pulled a sombre expression as his eyes fell upon the corpse. She was young, blonde and pretty- not an unusual choice of a victim. Sherlock scanned her, and pulled his hand from John's grasp to delve into her pockets.

"In her twenties, and no children- her figure tells us that. Recently divorced- you can tell from the tan lines on her finger. However, she has a multiple affairs ongoing- four phones in her pocket, with different alerts for different people. Lives in London, according to the train tickets- she frequently catches the tube from South Kenton. Material, and shallow- her personal phone has smudges all over where you press the phone to take a picture- prone to taking pictures of herself," Sherlock explained quickly. Although he wasn't as vocal about it, it still never ceased to amaze John how Sherlock could tell all this within seconds. He offered Sherlock an appraising half smile which the detective returned, before demanding the fatal book from Lestrade.

John skulked over to the security cameras once more, searching the footage for any clues. His sharp eyes focused on the woman's nails- Sherlock had taught him to always pay attention to a woman's nails. Bitten ones show anxiety, and long ones show feminism and impracticality etc. Theses nails were medium length, painted clear, and shaped. Neat but professional.

John's gaze fell upon the page that she was skimming at time of death- page 13. Underneath the page number were the words 'Revenge, as always, is best unexpected'. Surely this meant something? John was no detective, but this seemed deliberate, and therefore they were dealing with somebody very intelligent and therefore dangerous.

John checked his phone- one hour until Hamish needed picking up. Sherlock better solve this one fast, John thought grimly as he pressed the print button.

"Get me information on her social life- lovers, friends, family. This book was meant for her, and only her. She knew the murderer, because she immediately turned to the page which caused her death," Sherlock instructed the force. He turned to the page itself, and drew a finger down the paper. Deductions were no doubt forming in the detective's mind, and he turned to John.

"I need to get to Bart's. I think it was something to do with the page itself, but I'll need to examine it,"

John looked at Lestrade for approval, but the inspector shook his head, and pulled the book from Sherlock's grasp.

"That's police evidence, Sherlock. Our team will examine it,"

Sherlock let out an exasperated groan, and pointed a furious finger at Anderson's team.

"Your team is incompetent-" Sherlock was cut off by Donovan rushing over to the party, holding a piece of paper.

"One of her lovers was married to a woman who works in book printing. She could have done anything to the book," she said triumphantly, her eyes shining. Lestrade looked thoroughly impressed, and John had to admit this seemed like a likely option. But, as ever, Sherlock was impassive.

"Wrong," he said dismissively, and began to stalk away, before John grabbed his arm for what seemed like the fiftieth time today.

"Sherlock, explain, or I'll hide your ridiculous honey supply," John threatened, ignoring the slightly amused faces of the Scotland Yard police officers. Sherlock insisted that kept the honey for experiments, but truthfully he was very fond of the substance. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but grabbed the picture from Sally's hands.

"As if you could ever hide anything from me," he said scornfully, before pulling out his phone and typing something in.

"The murder is too intimate for the wife of her lover. That kind of revenge is fuelled by pure hate, so a gun or knife would be preferable. This was a wonderfully intricate, well planned murder- almost untraceable. So it had to be someone who knew her better than anyone. So, a lover is looking likely. But, not just the one night stand kind of lover- someone she was with for….oh I don't know…thirteen years," Sherlock held out his phone, looking delightfully smug. A picture of an awkward balding man filled the screen, along with the caption.

_Keith Granger, author of 'A modest summer in India'. He has recently stated his book is dedicated to his ex-wife of thirteen years, Rochelle Smith. _

John glanced at Sherlock, and gave him a smirk. Sherlock's eyes were bright and hopeful, and John could never resist him when he looked like that.

"Well I suppose we'll have to pay him a visit," John said, trying to look neutral. Donovan seemed furious at being outsmarted, but Lestrade, appraising as ever, started making calls to procure transport to the author's house.

"So what, he rigged the book somehow so that only she would turn to that page? How did he know that someone else wouldn't pick it up?" John asked Sherlock once the officers began to leave. Sherlock picked up his scarf from the table, and began knotting it around his neck.

"Well the librarian was clearly in on it. He paid her to only put the book on the shelves once Miss Smith entered the building," he said as they began to stride towards the exit. Impulsively, after checking the hallway was empty, John pushed Sherlock against the wall.

"We can't kiss, it's a crime scene," the detective breathed, aware of the bulge in his trousers and John's proximity to his lips.

"That never stopped you before," John murmured, wishing that Sherlock wasn't so bloody gorgeous. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, and crashed his lips against the smaller man's. It was a mess of tongues and teeth, but the high of a crime scene always did this to them.

"Stop snogging, we've got a murderer to catch," Lestrade yelled irritably from the car after what could have been forever. Sherlock started _giggling_ and John couldn't help but join in as they marched towards the curb to hail a taxi.

_**Please review or favourite or whatever shakes your boat.**_


	6. Chapter 6: Endearments and Abductions

6: Endearments and Abductions

"Hello, Mr Granger," Sherlock's smile was shark-like as he prowled around the man's flat. The man was mildly good looking, with dark hair and striking eyes, but his teeth were coffee stained and his face white. The man quaked under Sherlock's gaze, and hurriedly sat down, clearly waiting for the interrogation to start. Smirking to himself, John followed Anderson into the kitchen, as the rest of the team tore apart the suspect's flat. Sherlock had asked to question the author personally, so Lestrade grudgingly ordered a search on the modern, fairly expensive apartment. John began to comb through the messy contents on the kitchen counter, looking for anything suspicious or related to the victim. John considered himself fairly good at this by now, and quickly dismissed everything as clutter, discarding a notebook with the letters

I O U scrawled across it in red.

"You must be insane," Anderson's nasally voice caused John to turn around. Anderson was studying him with a curious expression on his face, as if John was some sort of creature that he couldn't quite figure out. John cleared his throat, and unconsciously tensed.

"I'm sorry?" he said, ready to defend himself against Anderson's petty insults.

"It's just… most people can barely even talk to him. And you married him, and raised his kid… its just incredible really," Anderson said. John rolled his eyes- people often thought that just because Sherlock was insufferable to most, that he was rude to everyone. Anderson had never seen Sherlock truly happy, his eyes crinkled up with laughter when John told a joke, or the delight in his smile when Hamish made a feeble deduction. Only John knew Sherlock as the human, not the machine.

"Hamish is my son too, Phillip," John said, trying to contain his temper. Anderson nodded, and opened his mouth to say something, before a police officer's yell interpreted them. Sherlock swept into the kitchen, and addressed only John when he spoke.

"We found poison in his bathroom. We're still proving whether it's linked to the book," Sherlock caught his husband's eye, silently letting him know that he'd heard the conversation between him and Anderson. The said man pushed forwards, muttering about being a trained forensics episode. Sherlock gave John a swift smile, before following Anderson into the room. John glanced at the clock, biting his lip. Hamish had to be collected in ten minutes… John hated to leave Sherlock at a crime scene, with no one to tell him when he was being incredibly rude or cruel to officers, but Sherlock was hardly going to leave matters with the police. As usual, it was up to John to take care of domestic matters. John stopped Sherlock by his coat sleeve, and kissed him chastely, before darting out to catch a cab.

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John jogged to the playgroup entrance, scanning the sea of children for Hamish's dark curls. The children milled out the doors, accompanied by parents and relatives- but no Hamish. John swallowed anxiously- if Hamish had normal parents, then this wouldn't be worrying. But Hamish's parents solved crimes and battled master criminals for a living. Obviously he was a vulnerable, due to his father's reputation. John located the blatantly homophobic playgroup assistant, and made his way towards her.

"Hello, er- have you seen Hamish Watson-Holmes?" John asked her, trying not to sound panicked. Hamish had probably got lost on the way to the cloakrooms or something trivial like that.

The blonde woman blinked, and looked over John's shoulder to where the gate was.

"His uncle came to collect him," she said slowly, looking very puzzled. John whipped around, to catch the view of a man who clearly wasn't Mycroft leading Hamish towards an ebony car. John felt his breath stop, and pure fear began to course through his veins as he pushed through the crowds of children.

"Ha-Hamish," he felt himself croak, because all he could see was his son chattering away to a strange man, with a gun clearly stowed in his pocket. The man stopped in mid sentence, noticing John racing towards them. He muttered something to Hamish, before diving into the car and shouting something at the driver. John fell to his knees beside Hamish, checking him for any sign of injury, before breathing a sigh of relief. Unharmed. John swept the boy into his arms, and inhaled him, trying to relax. Hamish was fine, and Sherlock would find who did this.

"He said that you'd sent him," Hamish whispered, clearly confused. John sighed. It was inevitable that Hamish would have to be told about the dangerous people that Sherlock and John interact with on a daily basis- but John hadn't thought that these people would affect their son's life so early.

"Come on, love. I'll explain when we're home," John said, his heart weary as he hailed a cab.

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"Stop fussing over him, John," Sherlock said, from where he was glaring at the window. Hamish was nestled in John's arms, sound asleep. After a conversation about "baddies" and "only going places with his daddies", John had all but smothered their son with sweets and films. Hamish hadn't really reacted to the afternoon's events, but had enjoyed the extra attention from John. Sherlock had taken one look at John when he'd waltzed in half an hour ago, and began making rapid phone calls to Mycroft and Lestrade.

"In case you didn't notice, Sherlock, our only son was almost abducted today," John hissed. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and turned to watch Hamish, an unreadable expression decorating his face.

"John, by coddling him you're making it into a memorable experience, that will register as significant when he's older. It would have been better to pretend it never happened," Sherlock was trying to look dethatched, but he was getting worse at hiding his emotions now that he had a family. John followed Sherlock's gaze, and they both stared at the small bundle of innocence and potential in John's arms for at least a minute.

"Who, Sherlock?" John whispered, his voice breaking. Sherlock looked at John, desperately trying to convey the fear he was feeling but couldn't say.

"Not many people know about Hamish. We haven't put anything about him on the blog, and I think there was only a minor piece on us when he was a baby in the tabloids. So it's someone who's been watching us. Most likely someone dangerous," Sherlock said cautiously. John chewed his lip, trying not to think of all the possibilities. Hamish simply couldn't be in danger. The newspaper article was the only proof of Hamish's existence, and therefore most likely their security leak. The article wasn't detailed, but it was enough to endanger them-

_Sherlock Holmes, the infamous London detective who regained his celebrity status after he came back from the dead in 2013, has finally confirmed the circulating rumours of the nature of his relationship with his colleague, Dr John Watson. The apparently brilliant detective was sighted embracing Watson in public yesterday, and the couple appeared to be wearing matching wedding rings. The crime solving pair had been speculated over for many months now, but most assumed their relationship was platonic. This startling revelation, along with the legalization of gay marriage in the UK, is showing that homosexuality is truly becoming the norm. The couple are reported to have a young son, who is Mr Holmes' biologically. _

The only suspect John could think of was Moriarty and his associates. Sherlock had no other known enemies.

"Moriarty's network?" John suggested. Sherlock collapsed into his chair, opposite John and Hamish.

"I don't know. I've got Mycroft searching every single bit of security footage available, to try and find the car," the detective said, beginning to pluck at his violin. John nodded, unable to think of anything to say. Surely just finding the car wouldn't eradicate the threat? John felt like more drastic measures should be taken, but then again, Sherlock's point was prominent in his mind. Making a big deal out of this would make it stick in his mind, and lead to paranoia when he's older.

"The case?" John enquired, to change the subject. Sherlock looked at him blanking for half a second, before remembering the case. The afternoon's events must have really shaken him up.

"Author was jealous that his ex had all her lovers. She had a passion for reading, and was smarter than she looked. She knew the significance of the page thirteen, as he'd hoped, and her skin made contact with a deadly poison which he'd rigged the particular book with. The librarian was paid to only put that book on the shelves when the victim entered, but she didn't know why. The author knew that she'd go to the library because she loved libraries, and she was low on money. He's been arrested, and I might have to say something in court," the detective finished with a contempt, displaying his hatred of courtrooms. John nodded in awe, wondering how people came up with such intricate murders. He'd just shoot them in the head and be done with it.

"Shall we put him to bed?" Sherlock asked after a few minutes. John nodded, and motioned for Sherlock to extract the sleeping boy. Hamish stirred awake as Sherlock carried him to the bathroom, and began mumbling about the film he'd watched with John earlier.

"Really, Hamish, that film wasn't exactly educational," Sherlock chided, as he sat Hamish on the side of the bath, and began to brush his teeth. John leant against the door frame, watching Sherlock lecture their son about the Scientifics of teeth and gums quietly. Hamish watched his father with undying interest, absorbing his words and most likely memorizing them. Sherlock stared back at his son with equal fascination and wonder, an expression that John rarely saw on his husband's face. It was nice, seeing Sherlock like this. Only Hamish really brought out this kind of reaction.

"But what is enamel's purpose?" Hamish enquired after he was freed from the toothbrush's clutches. John scooped the little boy up, and answered the question himself as Sherlock exited quietly, his phone ringing in his pocket. Mycroft, most likely.

After Hamish was settled, John retired downstairs to his chair, ignoring the small part of his mind that was insisting it was dinner time. His head was still buzzing about Hamish's encounter this afternoon- and also concern for the unborn baby. Natalie was five months along, but Sherlock was still delaying telling people apart from Molly and Mycroft, probably for security reasons. But this baby's life was in danger now, and will be even more helpless than Hamish. John's thoughts spun in circles, thinking of the fuzzy ultrasound picture in his wallet, and the insanity of the criminals of the world. Sherlock swept into the room, snapping something at Mycroft before hanging up. He then stood silently, deducting John's thought process, before perching on the chair's arm.

"We're having full surveillance put on him whenever he's not in the flat with us. Even outside with us, there's still a chance that he could slip away and someone would be waiting," Sherlock said, in a sort of defeated way.

"What about the baby?" John asked, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's waist.

"Same for him or her, obviously," Sherlock confirmed, resting his head on John's. They sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying each other's warmth, before Sherlock spoke again.

"We could disappear. Fake the whole family's death and move to America," the detective offered. John immediately felt that the idea was unnecessary, and shook his head.

"No. Our whole lives are in London. That's a plan for really serious circumstances," John said, and Sherlock made a noise of agreement into John's hair. John pulled the detective down so that he could kiss the side of his perfect mouth, and then his lips. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, and John pulled his husband into his lap, not breaking the kiss. Kissing Sherlock was always incredible, no matter how heated or how chaste the kiss was.

"We agreed not to do it in the arm chair," Sherlock rasped as he started grinding against John. John groaned, ignoring the other man's words as he felt Sherlock's bulge. And then suddenly his intoxicating presence was gone, and John was left breathless in the chair, with Sherlock smirking at him.

"Bedroom. Now," John growled, tugging Sherlock in the direction of their room.

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"Boys, I know you're still young, but couldn't be a little quieter?" Mrs Hudson nagged, bustling around their kitchen. John caught Sherlock's eye from over his newspaper, and they both struggled to refrain from laughing. Hamish joined in, unaware of the conversation's context. John carried on feeding Hamish his eggs-

" I won't associate myself with that egg filth you call food," as Sherlock had stated when John had reminded him Hamish ate more when Sherlock fed him- and Sherlock ignored his own plate as usual. Mrs Hudson began tidying up the table, deaf to John's protests, moving all of their case files and bills into a pile.

"When are going to start buying baby furniture?" Sherlock asked absently, turning the page on his newspaper.

"We've still got Hamish's old stuff, haven't we?" John said, surprised that Sherlock had brought up something sensible like that. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"There's no need to recycle, John. You'll remember that we're married, and I've got rather a lot of money available-"

"Yes, no need to remind us you're filthy rich," John interrupted, wiping Hamish's chin, and removing his bib so that he could reach for his picture book and continue reading.

"_We're_ filthy rich. If I die, then you'll be a millionaire," Sherlock grinned. John laughed, and leant across the table.

"I'll begin plotting your murder, in that case," he teased.

"Honestly John, you'd hardly be able to fool me,"

"I could shoot you," John reminded his husband. Sherlock snorted dismissively.

"Well you'd have the element of surprise, certainly. I've always assumed you're too obsessed with me to kill me,"

"You say such sweet things, darling," John said mockingly, rising from the table. Mrs Hudson, who had been observing the conversation until then, sat down in John's seat.

"Wait a minute, boys. I've got some news," said Mrs Hudson, blushing slightly. John made eye contact with Sherlock- the detective had already worked it out, and was looking sceptical.

"I'm moving to the country," Mrs Hudson announced. John blinked. Mrs Hudson, leaving Baker Street? The woman in question pulled Hamish onto her lap before continuing.

"Well, I know that you need some more space, with the baby on the way, so I've been thinking that you'd like to-"

"I've already signed the papers, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said, in a slightly exasperated sort of way. John rolled his eyes, and sat on Sherlock's lap, wrapping an arm around his neck.

"What papers, sweetheart?" John said, still sarcastic.

"Mrs Hudson is selling us the whole house, _dearest_," Sherlock sneered. John looked at Mrs Hudson in surprise, and she nodded in conformation.

"I'm expecting lots of visits of course, but I feel like I'm too old for London now. And you'll need the space when the children are older," she smiled. John privately agreed- Sherlock would never leave Baker Street, but John had being worrying about space recently. Maybe they'd be close to a normal family, in the near future.

_**This chapter is pretty long wow. Um I've had almost 800 views, but no reviews- c'mon people be nice and leave me a review.**_


	7. Chapter 7: Baby Names and Molly Hooper

_**This is pretty short, but I'll try and make it up next chapter… I update every Saturday now, because I'm usually busy on Fridays. Enjoy!**_

7: Baby names and Molly Hooper's affections

"Well since you're all here, me and Sherlock have some news," John said, striding into the living room. Mrs Hudson sat up expectantly- although she suspected, they hadn't confirmed it with her- while Lestrade stopped staring at Molly and actually gave John his full attention. Sherlock was slouched in his chair, ignoring everyone but his son, who was curled up on his lap and chattering about his day at playgroup. John and Mrs Hudson had convinced Sherlock to let Molly and Lestrade come round for Mrs Hudson's last Christmas at Baker Street- they'd made him invite Mycroft, even though he rarely graced them with his presence.

"Sherlock and _I,_ John. How on earth you became a doctor I'll never understand," Sherlock muttered. John rolled his eyes, and collapsed into his chair, clutching a glass of wine.

"Go on, then John, the anticipation is killing us," Lestrade said somewhat dryly. John sent him a glare before proceeding.

"We're…er… having another baby," John announced. This would be so much bloody easier if they weren't gay detectives. Molly and Mrs Hudson, of course, were unsurprised, but Lestrade looked pleasantly shocked.

"I'd never have thought that you two would have more than one," he confessed, shaking his head. Sherlock smirked, while pointing at a picture of a dissection for Hamish.

"When's it due?" Mrs Hudson gushed, beaming.

"21st February," John grinned. He truly had missed looking after a baby, although he hadn't considered himself the parenting type until Hamish.

"Boy or girl? God help any daughter of yours," Lestrade said bluntly. Molly was still very quiet, her eyes fixed on Sherlock.

"We're keeping it a surprise. We're thinking William for a boy, after Sherlock," Sherlock snorted at this. They'd been arguing about names since their most recent scan.

"_John, I see no reason whatsoever to endure watching the foetus again," complained Sherlock as they slouched in the waiting room. Sherlock was leaning on John shoulder, mulling over a low key case that he'd grudgingly accepted. _

"_We can find out the sex this time, Sherlock," John reminded the taller man. _

"_Who cares? What matters is that it's a baby," Sherlock's logical reasoning made John roll his eyes. John spent a lot of time rolling his eyes in his husband's presence._

"_Mr Holmes and Mr Watson?" a nurse poked her head round the door. John stood up abruptly, pulling Sherlock by his gloved hand, and followed the woman into the room. Natalie gave them a small smile from the bed, but didn't bother trying to make conversation. She'd obviously learnt from previous experiences. Sherlock didn't sit, so John didn't either, and they both hovered awkwardly beside Natalie. _

"_Hello, Dr and Mr Watson-"the doctor began, before Sherlock interrupted._

"_Mr Holmes," he almost spat, folding his arms. He truly was in a foul mood. The poor doctor blinked, and John shot her an apologetic look, motioning for her to continue._

"_Sorry, I just assumed…"_

_Sherlock raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. _

"_Sorry about him. Nice to meet you," John said, jabbing his husband in the ribs with his elbow. _

"_I'm Doctor Morgan," the doctor stated, somewhat coolly, before starting to get her equipment out._

"_This will be a bit cold, so be ready for it," Dr Morgan addressed Natalie, wiping the ultrasound gel on Natalie's rounded belly. Sherlock huffed, making a fuss because he'd heard these words multiple times now._

"_This isn't about you," John hissed, keeping his eyes fixed on the grainy screen beside the bed. _

"_I was under the impression that this is our child, so it does involve me," Sherlock retorted, but thankfully shut up. Dr Morgan moved the transducer over Natalie's abdomen for about a minute, before finally finding the baby._

"_Here we go," smiled Dr Morgan, gesturing to the fuzzy image of the foetus. John grinned leaning closer. Admittedly pregnancy wasn't his expertise, but he knew enough to clarify that the baby was healthy. Sherlock looked unusually awestruck when his eyes fell upon the screen- his grey eyes widened, and his lips parted for a few seconds, before he composed himself. _

"_Would you like to know its gender?" Dr Morgan asked. They'd discussed whether they wanted to know, and concluded that Sherlock didn't care as long it was able bodied and functioning. That left John to make the decision, and although he wanted to know, part of him wanted to keep it a surprise. He could wait a few months, right? _

"_We'll wait until it's born," John clarified. Dr Morgan nodded, and proceeded to ask Natalie various questions about her diet and life style._

"_Well that concludes the appointment. The baby is healthy, and is on track for a due date of the 21__st__ of February. I'll print out any details, and you can collect them from reception on the way out," she said a few minutes later. Sherlock simply swept from the room, leaving John to exchange pleasantries with the remaining occupants._

"_I don't envy you, dealing with that one," Dr Morgan pulled a somewhat sympathetic face._

"_He keeps me on my toes," John said briskly, before waving at Natalie and following Sherlock's example by quickly escaping. Sherlock was leaning against the wall, texting. John caught a glimpse of the text detailing the baby's condition, and smiled. Sherlock may act like he doesn't care, but the machine façade was crumbling. And god knows what that means, John thought, as they linked fingers and made their way to reception. _

"_Couldn't you be slightly more polite, William?" John teased, knowing Sherlock hated being called by his first name. Sherlock glared at him, regretting the day when he had been forced to reveal his full name- their wedding day, incidentally. _

"_Although I was burdened with a mediocre name as my birth name, I wish to be called by what you've known me by in our time together," Sherlock said impossibly quickly. John chuckled, stroking Sherlock's thumb with his finger._

"_William wouldn't be a bad name for a boy," _

"_Absolutely not,"_

"We're not considering William. And for a girl, we'll go for Amelia," Sherlock said, interpreting John's memory. There were various appreciative sounds from Mrs Hudson and Molly, and Lestrade looked positively delighted.

"So when are you moving into the cottage?" Molly asked Mrs Hudson, directing the conversation away from the baby rather hurriedly. John couldn't help but feel slightly annoyed- Lestrade clearly adored her, and still she pined over Sherlock, who couldn't be less interested.

"You look angry, daddy," Hamish observed. Sherlock smirked at John, clearly enjoying the melodrama that he caused. John sent him a glare, and then the bastard looked across the room, and _winked _at Molly Hooper. She looked flustered, and went bright red. John felt his jaw drop, and looked at his husband in a way that implied _We're going to have angry sex later. _

"Oh I can't wait John," Sherlock said loudly, the smug prick.

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John stared at the elaborate diagrams that Sherlock had produced in disbelief.

"You enjoy _architecture?_" he cried, looking at the floor plans Sherlock had been slaving over for the last few hours. Hamish giggled from where was bouncing on Sherlock and John's bed.

"Oh for God's sake John, keep up. I don't enjoy it, but we need to redesign lots of Baker Street in order to make it a house, not three flats. Use your common sense," Sherlock said haughtily, appearing over John's shoulder. He pointed to the first drawing.

"We'll convert 221A into a playroom, and additional bathroom, as well as a bedroom for one of the children. We'll keep this floor as it is, and then the top floor can be another bedroom and bathroom. And 221C can be a lab and study," Sherlock explained, gesturing to the untidy yet elegant drawings accordingly. John was astounded.

"And you can actually do this before the baby is born?" he questioned. It looked reasonably expensive and time consuming.

"You forget the contacts we have," Sherlock sniffled, collapsing onto the bed. John was tempted to follow, but Hamish was refusing to go to sleep. Most likely because Sherlock had got him excited about an experiment earlier on, and he still hadn't calmed down.

"Later, John," Sherlock said, closing his eyes and adopting his signature prayer position. John grinned at the sight, before turning to Hamish. This wasn't going to be an easy evening- dealing with a hyper miniature Sherlock never was.

_**I'm planning some action next chapter. And the baby will be born within a few chapters! I've already picked which sex, but feel free to guess!**_


	8. Chapter 8: Double Killings

_** hasn't been working for me for the last few days, so sorry this is late. Not my best, but hopefully the next chapter will be more action packed…**_

8: Double Killings

"Hamish, don't be afraid to ring me if your daddies aren't feeding you up," Mrs Hudson cooed, balancing the little boy on her hip. While John was assisting with carrying boxes into the moving van, Sherlock was sitting unhelpfully on the stairs, watching Mrs Hudson say her goodbyes to Hamish.

"Mrs Hudson, we are perfectly capable of feeding our son," John reminded her as he passed, carrying some of the old woman's china. She looked up as if she hadn't realized he was there.

"Oh, I know what you two are like, always out on a case. I worry that he'll struggle a bit, without me here," Mrs Hudson said earnestly. John blinked, stopping by the foot of the staircase. Sherlock seemed equally gobsmacked, and couldn't even think of cutting remark.

"I don't know what you mean, Mrs Hudson," John said, shooting a look at Hamish. The toddler, although tall for his age, was also skinnier than most children. The cause for this was put down to Sherlock's genes, but Mrs Hudson still seemed to think he was unneutered.

"Well, who's going to look after him, when you're out?" Mrs Hudson asked. Truthfully, John hadn't given the matter much thought. He wasn't good at practicalities, which was unfortunate considering he was married to Sherlock.

"Well, we can get Molly…" John said, shifting the box onto his hip.

"You can't dump Hamish on the poor girl every few days, John! Do you two plan anything at all?" Mrs Hudson scoffed. John looked at Sherlock for help, but he'd apparently zoned out of the conversation, and was muttering to himself, eyes shut.

"We'll manage, Mrs H," John said shortly, before making his way outside with the china.

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"It's so good of you to take him for the night," John smiled at Sarah, who looked mildly annoyed to be disturbed at 8 on a Thursday night. Hamish was fast asleep on John's shoulder, with his overnight bag on his back.

"Yeah. Well let's not make it a regular thing, John. You can't do this indefinitely," Sarah said, bluntly. Lestrade had texted with a case this morning, and Sherlock had run off immediately, leaving Hamish with Molly since John was at the surgery. Molly had been happy to look after him for the day, but had to drop him at the clinic an hour ago. Sherlock had texted for John's assistance, so arrangements for Hamish had to be made. Only a few days had passed since Mrs Hudson leaving, and they were already struggling with balancing out the time spent on cases and the time spent at home-although John didn't want to admit it, he suspected that he and Sherlock's crime solving days were drawing to a close; of course he hadn't expressed this to the detective himself.

"I know, Sarah," John sighed, "But I don't really know what else to do…"

Sarah's face softened, and she reached for Hamish.

"You could always stay home with him. When one of his parents is Sherlock Holmes, he needs a more stable parent," Sarah suggested softly. John closed his eyes, and counted to five, before replying.

"I know. But he'll get himself killed if I'm not there,"

Sarah looked at him sadly, before shutting the door.

John walked to end of Sarah's road, before hailing a cab and climbing in.

_Where to?_

_North Gower Street. Two bodies, hurry- SH_

_We need to sort out places for Hamish to go in the long term._

_People have died. Please concentrate. –SH_

John sighed, and put his phone away, reluctant to carry on conversation with the bastard. The journey stretched on for about fifteen minutes, before the taxi arrived at road similar to Baker Street. The regulation police tape encircled a house on the left side of the road- a few windows were smashed, and the door had been broken down. There was some graffiti on the side of them house- I O U in bright red paint. John half smiled as he remembered the case of the 'Blind Banker', where yellow ciphers had played a large part in solving the case.

After paying the driver, John jogged up to the front door, ignoring the officer who shouted indigently at him for ducking under the tape. Anderson was standing in the hallway, outside what presumably was the front room. John nodded at him, before attempting to move past him.

"Sherlock told me not to let anyone in," Anderson said in his nasally voice. John gave him an incredulous look, before folding his arms.

"We're married, Phillip," he said, wondering if the forensics scientist had somehow forgotten. Anderson shifted uncomfortably, his hand lingering on the door knob.

"I know, but he was very clear that no one would be allowed in…" John laughed disbelievingly, before pushing his way past Anderson and entering the crime scene.

The room was in fact a study. Two bodies were sprawled on the floor- a man and a woman of about forty, both with gun wounds through their forehead. The woman was clutching a gun in her stiff hand. Lestrade was looking through papers on the desk, while Sherlock was crouched by the woman's body, making rapid deductions. The detective didn't offer any greeting, so John fell into the usual routine of grabbing his husband and hauling him to his feet, so that he could survey him.

"Have you drunk anything today?" John asked, taking in Sherlock's pale face and dry lips. Sherlock looked slightly murderous at being distracted from the crime, and didn't reply verbally, only sighing and trying to wriggle away from John.

"Sherlock. Have you?" John said sternly. Sherlock's health had dramatically increased since marrying John, but only because of John's constant monitoring.

"Does it matter?" Sherlock spat, his voice raspy.

"Christ, Sherlock," John muttered, dragging the ridiculous man into the kitchen to locate some water.

"This is a crime scene, John," Sherlock protested, as John cluttered around the cupboards, too used to this kind of situation to have any qualms about using the deceased's cups. There was jars of pickles stacked on all the cabinets, with other strange combinations of food.

"I don't care. You need to stay hydrated in order to solve your crimes effectively," John snapped, pushing the cup of water into Sherlock's gloved hands.

"I just forgot," Sherlock retorted, but gulped down the water almost thankfully. John watched, feeling his annoyance fade slightly. It was just the idea of being responsible... it had never bode well with John. And with only a month to go until the baby's birth, it looked like he would be falling into that role more often. Sherlock caught John's eye, and moved his calculating gaze over him.

"You're tired, and stressed. You don't have to come," he said, wrapping his arm around John's shoulders. John leaned into Sherlock, hating how exhausted he felt. He'd braved _Afghanistan, _for God's sake- why was parenting wearing him down so much?

"Yeah, I did," John responded, inhaling Sherlock's scent. He smelt like Baker Street- musky and dusty, but still pleasant.

"Oi, Sherlock. We're trying to solve a case here," Lestrade called, bursting into the room, but stopping when he saw Sherlock and John in an embrace.

"Er, do you need a moment?" the detective inspector said awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. Sherlock looked like he was about to yell at Greg to piss off, so John intervened.

"No, it's fine," John said, sliding away from Sherlock and following Lestrade back into the study.

Sherlock almost immediately went back to deducing the bodies, before producing a conclusion.

"The man is an author- the notebook in his pocket has conversations and ideas written down. A struggling one, though- he looks tired and probably near the end of his tether - and his ideas aren't exactly Shakespearian standard, so most likely unpublished for a number of years. Boring, and probably innocent. The woman however, is much more interesting- groove in her finger where a gun is held, as well as numerous tattoos. Although they mean nothing to most, that sign, there," Sherlock pointed to a circle behind the woman's ear, "Is the brand of the _Cohors_, a gang based in Spain. So this woman was a member of a gang, known for murder and smuggling. Most likely an assassin,"

Sherlock then took out his phone, and began typing something. John looked at the woman again… something wasn't adding up. She was wearing very baggy clothing, and all the weird foods in the kitchen…

"So she killed him and then herself?" Lestrade asked, looking pityingly at the man.

"Nope," Sherlock replied unhelpfully. John bent down beside the woman's body, and looked at her abdomen closely. Five weeks pregnant. John closed his eyes, and sighed, rocking back onto his heels.

"She was pregnant, Sherlock," John whispered. Sherlock stopped typing, and looked at the body for a long time, before simply going back to the phone. If John didn't know Sherlock so well, he'd have been shocked at the lack of compassion. But Sherlock simply didn't know how to deal with stuff like this.

"A member of the gang is in London currently, and we have his location. It's probable that he shot them both, then made it look like she'd done it. She most likely left the gang for her husband, but she knew too much," the detective said quietly.

"Where is he then?" Lestrade demanded, pulling his phone out. Sherlock gave him a humourless smile.

"That's for me to know, and you to find out. Come on, John," and the detective swept away, leaving confusion in his wake as always.

_**Thank you for reading! Please review**_


	9. Chapter 9: Bolt-holes and Bullets

_**I had to split this chapter up so that I could update in time, sorry if it's a bit short… enjoy!**_

9: Boltholes and bullets

"Where are we going, Sherlock?" John asked, pinning the detective against a wall to stop him running. They'd been racing around London for hours now, without a word of explanation from Sherlock. They were currently in a cramped alleyway, which was devoid of any life apart from perhaps a few rats. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and shoved against John.

"Mycroft has sent the known boltholes of the gang. We're simply searching every one," Sherlock said in his 'don't be obvious' voice.

"Every single one in one night?" John hissed, thinking of Hamish.

"Hamish will be fine, John. Now hurry, we're outside the next bolthole," Sherlock said, twisting out of John's grip and darting towards a wooden door that John hadn't noticed before. John followed, his hand clutching the gun that Sherlock had thrown at him earlier. He hated not having his gun with him when perusing criminals. Sherlock slammed his shoulder against the door, as he had so many other times this evening, and uncharacteristically stumbled into the room. John reached to catch his arm, but Sherlock regained his balance in an almost feline movement and bent down to examine what had tripped him.

"The boots are still caked in fresh, damp mud. Someone is here, or has just left" Sherlock snapped, ignoring John's amused smirk. It was a dark, dingy building with pipes snaking along the ceiling and dust adorning the floorboards. John clicked the safety off his gun, before beginning to scan the room for any signs of danger. Sherlock cast his calculating gaze upon the room, before nodding.  
>"This is the bolthole. Get ready for a confrontation" Sherlock warned, before sprinting towards a door on the opposite side of the room. John followed, feeling guilty for the adrenaline filling his veins that only a case could ignite.<p>

They burst into the room, to see a singular figure bent over a crate. The man froze, and dropped the package on the floor, his eyes darting between the pair of them. John raised his gun, aiming it at the man's forehead. The man lifted his hands in surrender, but the murderous look in his eyes remained.  
>"Member of the Cohors, I presume?" Sherlock asked, his voice cutting. The man nodded- he had a vaguely Hispanic look about him, and was tall and toned. To be taken seriously.<br>"Prefiere hablar en español?" Sherlock said, the Spanish words rolling off his tongue. John often pondered just many languages Sherlock could speak- the man often muttered to himself in different languages, and was prone to singing in Italian in the shower.

"No, I don't think your friend can understand Spanish," the man snarled, his voice heavily accented. John felt incredibly stupid, but admittedly had forgotten most of his education in languages. He instead focused on how the man had referred to him, to try and regain the upper-hand.

"Husband, actually," John corrected. Sherlock shot him a look that was half adoring and half disbelieving, before they both turned back to the man. His eyebrows were raised, but he didn't comment.

"You killed Maria and Darrel Swan?" Sherlock inquired, although he probably could tell by his shoelaces or something ludicrous like that.

"Why would I tell you?" the man said. He hadn't moved an inch, but his eyes were darting around the room. John noticed his hand twitching, and frowned. Something was wrong.

"Because you appear to have a gun trained on you," Sherlock said, stalking towards the murderer. The man laughed, not trying to dart of out the detective's way, and looked at him with a crazed look in his eye.

"Well, I'm not the only one," he spat. John registered the red dot fixed on Sherlock's back, and lowered his gun. This was dangerous to the point of life threatening. And they could no longer play games with criminals, not now that they had two lives depending on them.

Sherlock didn't react to the gun aimed at his back, but John saw the look in his eyes- terror and panic were clouding the usual coldness of his blue-green irises, and John _hated _it.

"Drop the gun, or your _husband_ gets it, Dr Watson" the man sneered. John set his gun on the floor, never breaking eye contact with the man.

"You know who we are?" Sherlock said, his voice still remarkably calm.

"We know Mycroft Holmes, so we know you, Mr Holmes, as you are his only weakness. Therefore, we know of John Watson, although we didn't know of the…_nature_ of your relationship. That's a useful thing to know," the gang member said, no longer restrained by the threat of a gun. Sherlock nodded, and then fixed John with a look, which usually meant 'get over here'. John crossed to his husband's side, and Sherlock began to interrogate the man further.

"So Maria Swan left the Cohors because of her pregnancy, but you killed her, because she knew too much?"

"She knew of some top secret plans, which if leaked could bring down our whole operation," the man supplemented. Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, and began to tap it. _Morse code_ John realised.

_I need to get a confession. Two minutes._

"Stop touching," the man said suddenly, realising what was going on. Reluctantly, John wrenched out of Sherlock's grasp, thinking of the sniper.

"These plans, did they-"

"What were you saying to each other," the man interrupted, eyes narrowed. John's mind went blank and he shifted from one foot to the other, trying to think of a cover story.

"That's none of your concern," Sherlock said coolly. The man stared at them for a few seconds, before muttering something in Spanish. And then the gun fired. Sherlock crumpled to the floor, red leaking from his leg. The sniper and the Spanish gang members ceased to exist, and even know John knew it was distraction, he still raced to Sherlock's side. The fool's face was crumpled in pain, but he still grabbed John's shirt.

"They're getting away," he groaned. John lifted Sherlock so that he was leaning on John's knees, and placed one hand behind his head while punching 999 into his phone with the other.

"Yeah, like I'd fucking leave you here to die of blood loss," John hissed, his teeth gritted. Sherlock didn't bother arguing while John shouted directions down the phone, thankfully.

"Okay, I'm going to stop the bleeding-" John began to shift Sherlock back onto the floor, but the detective clung tighter to John's shirt.

"It's just a graze John," he protested. John cast his medically trained eye on the Sherlock- he was beginning to shake, whether from coldness, shock, or from the fact that he hadn't eaten for twelve hours, John couldn't tell. John gave in, and hugged the detective tighter.

"You cold?" he whispered in the idiot's ear.

"Slightly," Sherlock said, his lips blue. John shrugged off his coat, and draped it over his husband. What was another vital thing to do? John's mind was always clouded when Sherlock was involved.

"Don't pass out. Tell me about ash," John said, checking his watch. When would the ambulance get here? The wound didn't look deep but John would never forgive himself if Sherlock…

Sirens eventually interrupted Sherlock's half hearted monologue. The paramedics raced in, and lifted Sherlock on onto a stretcher, leaving John kneeling in Sherlock's blood, not quite sure why he was so shaken up. Sherlock would live- the bullet didn't puncture any organs, and it didn't hit any bone. So why couldn't he breathe as he followed the gurney, any why was he having trouble thinking about anything but the pain on Sherlock's face?

"Are you of direct relation?" the paramedic asked him, as he climbed into the ambulance.

"Husband," John whispered, his eyes fixed on Sherlock- his eyes barely open, and dark curls splayed around his head like a halo. John reached for his hand, and didn't let go for the whole journey.

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"Daddy isn't going to be very alert, Hamish, so don't expect a response from him," John told the toddler, as they stood in the lift on the way to Sherlock's hospital room. John had hated collecting Hamish from Sarah's with the news that Sherlock was unconscious in hospital, since Hamish had burst into tears, and although Sarah was sympathetic, she also shot him a look that implied "I told you so". They'd gone straight to the hospital- John had only left to fetch Hamish- and John had met Mycroft in the waiting room, armed with his umbrella and an oddly shaken expression. Mycroft hadn't said a word during the journey to the room, but as they exited the lift, and grabbed John's arm.

"John… I was hoping that this wouldn't be necessary for decades to come, but alas, fate has intervened. I think you should consider stopping freelance detective work," Mycroft said quietly, looking pointedly at Hamish.

"Mycroft, the cases are his life… I can't ask him to…" John said, exhausted from the night's events. Mycroft gave him a cold stare, and looked towards Sherlock's room.

"A few years ago, I never would have suggested it. But he has you and Hamish and the baby, and he's going to have to choose, John. I'm afraid you'll have to be firm with him," he said, before disappearing into the room. Hamish burrowed into John's neck, still sniffing.

"Is daddy going to die?" he whispered, not looking at John. John tightened his grip on his son, wishing he could stop his fear, and despising Sherlock for putting such a young child through this.

"Of course not, Hamish. Don't be silly," John reassured him, staring vacantly past Hamish's head. He didn't know what to feel anymore.

_**Review please!**_


	10. Chapter 10: Unpleasant Conversations

_**Sorry for the late update, school started again, and I'm doing homework and working on a one shot, so I'm kind of busy. Sorry this is short.**_

10: Unpleasant conversations

"Daddy," Hamish cried, scrambling onto Sherlock's hospital bed after Mycroft had exited. The detective was hooked up to various tubes, his eyes barely open. His eyes widened however, when Hamish curled up beside him and dug his head into his side. John hung back, his head still spinning from the conversation with Mycroft. Of course he was right- he's always bloody right- but it wasn't just Sherlock who would suffer from a lack of cases. John Watson was a person of contrasts: doctor and solider, father and detective, wishing for a domestic life with his husband and also craving the danger of crime solving. Contrasts were a part of John as much as the way he dressed, and his eye colour. And John didn't want to give up danger anymore than Sherlock, in fear that he'd fully adopt the persona that he displayed- a boring domestic doctor. But he'd have to.

John closed his eyes in defeat, wishing he could find a way out, to find a way to live both lives. But this was it- time to persuade Sherlock to give up what had previously made his life worth living.

"It's alright Hamish, just my leg," Sherlock grunted, focusing completely on his son. Hamish didn't respond, taking the opportunity to cuddle Sherlock. Sherlock locked eyes with John from across the room, and John pointedly began looking through Sherlock's paperwork at the end of his bed, forcing the detective to engage with Hamish. It wasn't that Sherlock was a bad father, more that he didn't see the point in constantly smothering their son. Somewhat awkwardly, Sherlock began recounting what had occurred the previous night, practically swelling with pride when Hamish stared at him wide-eyed, and demanded to know more. Sherlock told the story as if John was the hero, which forced John to correct him multiple times.

Eventually, Hamish fell asleep, clearly emotionally and physically exhausted by the night's events. John took the opportunity to examine Sherlock's wound- technically he wasn't allowed to, but that wouldn't stop him.

"Something's bothering you," Sherlock observed, watching him closely. John was about to deny it, but realised now was the perfect time to talk to Sherlock. Reluctantly, he sat on the chair by the side of the bed and grabbed Sherlock's hand, rubbing circles onto it with his thumb. Sherlock waited expectantly- John was amazed he hadn't already deduced it somehow- while John struggled for words.

"I don't think it's a good idea to do field work anymore," John finally blurted out. Sherlock's face slipped into an impassive mask, and didn't comment.

"We've got two lives depending entirely on us, Sherlock. We can't carry on risking our lives, not when there's murderers involved," John said, hating every single word he said. Sherlock might as well have been a statue, his face wiped clean of emotion apart from his eyes. His eyes were scanning and calculating John, and trying to put together pieces of the puzzle that was John Watson.

"Of course, we'll still take cases, but we'll leave the life threatening stuff to Lestrade. And you can work from home, while I work at the surgery…" John trailed off, waiting for Sherlock to respond. It took two minutes for Sherlock to undoubtedly analyse the scenario from every angle in his head, before he tore his hand from John's.

"Out of the question," he said, deliberately averting eye contact and focusing on Hamish. Anger stirred in John's stomach, and he stood up abruptly.

"What do you mean? Don't you understand why we need to stop?" he hissed, glaring at his husband. Sherlock regarded him coolly, as if John was being unreasonable.

"I'm not being a _stay at home dad_," Sherlock spat, as if the title was equal to that of a bin man. John gaped at him, wondering how he could be self centred.

"This isn't about you, Sherlock. It's about our children," John retorted.

"So parenthood means giving up what you love?" Sherlock whisper-shouted, conscious of Hamish sleeping soundly. John threw up his hands in disbelief, now pacing back and forth.

"Well, yeah! Every parent has to make sacrifices," John shot at the cold, machine-like man in the hospital bed. Sherlock's face was still blank, but his eyes were furious.

"I didn't realise that giving up my passion in life was necessary in order to gain the status of the perfect parent," Sherlock growled. John marched across the room, and scooped up Hamish, careful to not to wake him.

"In that case, I guess you'll have to choose, Sherlock. The work, or your children," John seethed, before almost running from the room. That conversation could have gone better.

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John wasn't expecting to fight Sherlock about the issue for the rest of the pregnancy. And he got his wish- during the days he spent at Sherlock's bedside, the issue didn't emerge, and John didn't bring it up. They just talked about anything, _anything_, but giving up the cases. Once Sherlock was released, armed with crutches that he deemed completely unnecessary, they were swept away in baby preparations and dealing with the builders that were renovating 221 Baker Street. Thankfully the builders weren't invading what used to be 221B, so they could continue life as usual. And the issues didn't come up, because they were too busy.

John found himself enjoying buying unisex baby clothes, and brand new stuffed toys, as well as decorating the baby's room. The cot was going to reside in him and Sherlock's room for the first few weeks, before the baby moved to the downstairs bedroom. The nursery was painted a light yellow, and full of baby books and toys, some new and some of Hamish's old things. When they entered the January, the month when the baby was due, John thought himself completely prepared for the baby's arrival, but all of that flew out the window when he got the phone call.

He and Sherlock were curled up on the sofa, the detective sifting through some case files while John read an old medical text book. They still hadn't discussed giving up the crime solving, although John had found many opportunities to bring the issue up. But he hadn't, and John knew it would mean a huge row in the long term, however he was content to pretend that there was nothing wrong and hope that the issue would go away. The argument a few months ago didn't stop John from curling up underneath Sherlock's arm, and Sherlock resting his hand on John's jean-clad knee, relishing in the domestic bliss that was rare for Baker street. The shrill ringtone of John's phone disturbed the silence, and John fumbled for it, cursing the caller since Sherlock had almost fallen asleep, for once.

"Hello?" he snapped, half smiling at the sight of Sherlock blinking drowsily and trying to recapture his surroundings.

"Natalie's gone into labour. I'll send a car to take Hamish to Gregory's, and a car for you and my brother," Mycroft's irritatingly calm voice responded. John sat up straight, running his fingers through his hair.

"Shit. We'll be right there," he said, before hanging up and springing into action.

"The baby's coming, get Hamish, while I pack his bag," John almost shouted at Sherlock, who looked thoroughly startled. John could have kicked himself for forgetting to assemble a bag for Hamish- he grabbed the first clothes he could find, and threw them in a backpack, along with Hamish's bee toy and his toothbrush. Sherlock met him in the hall, carrying a half asleep three year old. His eyes betrayed his otherwise calm demeanour, and John wished that he could soothe his husband. But now wasn't the time- _oh shit, we're having another baby_- and John could only focus on getting to the hospital in time for the delivery. John honestly couldn't remember saying goodbye to Hamish, or rushing to the hospital. Post parental panic was consuming him, and only Sherlock's cool, collected voice could snap him out of it.

"John. Calm down, or I'll have you thrown out of the delivery room,"

Oh Christ. John collapsed into a chair, head in his hands, as Natalie's screams echoed around the hall.

_**Next update will be from Saturday to Monday.**_


	11. Chapter 11: Sherlock is unsociable

_**Okay I've been having trouble sticking to deadlines, so I'm going to have to abadon an update schedule. You can expect a chapter once or twice every fortnight, from now on…**_

11: Sherlock is unsociable

John spent most of the labour pacing the hallways, while Sherlock stationed himself on a chair with his blackberry and barely moved for the seven hours that the baby's birth took. They didn't talk often- only to check that the other was okay- and soon enough Mycroft arrived, along with Sherlock's parents. John had met Sherlock's parents once before Hamish was born- when Sherlock had brought him home for the first time. They visited once a month these days, since they completely adored Hamish and wanted to spoil him as much as possible.

Mrs Holmes embraced John, clearly not bothering to try and be affectionate with her own son.

"How long now?" she asked earnestly, her eyes remixing him of Sherlock's in the way they scanned his face.

"They think she'll start pushing in about half an hour," John grinned weakly. Mycroft looked mildly repulsed by the whole affair, and quickly struck up a conversation with his father. John forced Sherlock to speak to his mother- a decision he quickly regretted when the detective rudely cut her off and resumed staring at his phone. John opened his mouth to apologize for his husband's behaviour, but Mrs Holmes gave him a knowing look, and began to talk about the birthing process. John had been infatuated with Mrs Holmes the first time that he'd met her, since she radiated the cold intelligence that her sons possessed, yet still seemed charming and clearly equipped with the social skills needed to fit into society…

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"_Sherlock, I don't need to bring a bloody gun to your parents' house," John hissed as Sherlock pressed the weapon into John's hand. They were standing on the Holmes' porch clutching their suitcases, and Sherlock had decided now was the perfect time to present John with his gun._

"_John, you know the life style we lead. You must always be prepared," said Sherlock, his eyes flashing wildly. This didn't help John relax about meeting Sherlock's parents- it's daunting enough meeting your boyfriend's parents, but it's even more terrifying when these people had raised Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. John barely had time to stuff the gun into his pocket before the door was flung open to reveal a short woman, with cropped gray hair and Sherlock's eyes. John was surprised- she looked relatively ordinary- and opened his mouth to greet her, before he was interrupted _

"_Sherlock dear, you actually came!" she exclaimed, pulling Sherlock into a hug. John gaped, unable to think of an occasion where Sherlock had hugged anyone but him. Mrs Holmes rounded on John next, her bright eyes surveying him._

"_And you must be John," she said, trying to resign herself but failing. John grinned, holding out his hand._

"_Nice to meet you," he said, ignoring the look on Sherlock's face. Sherlock's father, presumably, appeared behind Mrs Holmes, and looked at John sceptically, before motioning for them to enter. Sherlock looked disgusted at the whole affair, and followed John reluctantly into the house. The evening passed without incident, although Sherlock and Mrs Holmes sniped at each other all throughout dinner. John had laid his hand on Sherlock's knee, subtly telling him to shut up in fear of offending Sherlock's parents. Mr and Mrs Holmes were obviously used to Sherlock's antics, however, and brushed off his dry remarks and his cold attitude. Things only became awkward when Mr Holmes asked how they had met. Sherlock had warned John before hand that his father wasn't entirely supportive of Sherlock's sexuality, even though he'd been gay his whole life. Sherlock didn't look inclined to answer, so John cleared his throat and exhibited what he believed to be his most winning smile._

"_Um, well, we met at St Bart's hospital, through an old friend. We ended up sharing a flat together, and one thing led to another I suppose," he said, careful to not go into too much detail._

"_And you genuinely want to be with Sherlock?" Mr Holmes said, sounding curious. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock slump slightly, clearly wounded by his father's words. John reached across and grabbed Sherlock's hand firmly, before nodding at Mr Holmes._

"_Of course. I care about him deeply," he said, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles. Mr Holmes looked satisfied, and John thought he saw a gleam of approval in Mrs Holmes' eyes._

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"Natalie is ready to start pushing. Dr Watson?" a nurse poked her head out of the delivery room. John stood, and nodded, marching towards the room. Sherlock had pointed out that he was acting like a first time father, with all his pacing and panicking. John supposed that his husband was right- it did feel like this was his first child, since this was the standard procedure. They'd had a ready made child the first time, but this time was different- this time felt almost ordinary.

John pulled on the regulation scrubs, since he insisted on being present for the birth. Sherlock had opted to come in afterwards- John had teased him about being able to deal with mutilated dead bodies but not babies being born. Sherlock had always hastily changed the subject, or retorted with an insult to John. Mr and Mrs Holmes hovered outside, while Sherlock stood with Mycroft and they had a conversation through glares. It wasn't a pleasant experience- John felt almost guilty as he watched Natalie shriek in agony. Admittedly she was being paid, but was _this_ worth £10,000? John tried to help as much as possible, but he'd never spent much time in the maternity ward- his usefulness was limited.

An hour later, Natalie pushed for the final time, and a baby's cry broke the otherwise silent room. John watched, awe struck, as the doctor handed him the writhing infant.

"It's a boy," the doctor smiled, handing him a pair of scissors to cut the umbilical cord with. _He's perfect _John thought, drinking in his son as he severed the cord. The baby had a tuft of golden curls upon his tiny head, and his eyes were bright blue, although they could still change. John felt the urge to trace his miniscule finger nails, or memorize his face entirely. He was so entranced in his son that he didn't notice Sherlock entering, along with Hamish, who had presumably been dropped off a few minutes ago. Sherlock hung back, looking almost apprehensive, while Hamish ran over, desperate to see his new sibling.

"Steady on, Hamish," John chided half heartedly, understanding his son's eagerness. Hamish looked utterly fascinated also, and stroked his head incredibly gently for a three year old boy.

"William?" John confirmed, meeting Sherlock's eyes. The detective nodded, looking unruffled, but his eyes as usual were conveying everything that John needed to know. Sherlock held out his arms, and John passed William to him.

Sherlock gazed at his son with such adoration and love that John could hardly believe that he'd ever though the man a sociopath. John scooped Hamish into his arms, cuddling his skinny frame, and grinned at Natalie. She was watching them with tears in her eyes, as was Mrs Holmes. So this was what family was like. John never had much of a family- his father and sister were alcoholics, and his mother was too timid to ever say anything for herself. The family environment had always been strained at best, and even now that his parents were gone, he and his sister barely talked. But this… this felt like a real family. And John would protect his family's happiness at all costs.

_**Not entirely happy with this, but I was in a hurry to update. Thanks for reading, none the less!**_


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